Distorted Heart
by JanaMuppet
Summary: Ciaran is on a mission from the Society. The sacred rite must be undertaken beneath the light of the full moon but how can he follow through when Chalice captures his heart? As time grows short, Ciaran must make a decision that will test his loyalties to the limit. But the Society are always watching and the Society always win, don't they?
1. Prologue - The Beginning

Prologue - The Beginning

Three things have brought me to this place.

I am the last descendant of Grimalkin, Witch Assassin and bearer of the Devil's only son.

My blood traces back to these lines, the ancient town of Pendle where the clans of Malkin and Deane once united.

And now a securing quest of fate has summoned me through some unknown chamber to undertake a rite that will change the future of our kind. I am reluctant, unwilling even, to comply yet I fear I have no hand in the matter. This summons to the transcendence of our entire Pagan dominion evokes a final responsibility upon my being. They are my blood, my family. I have come to marry our stars.


	2. Prologue - The End

Prologue – The End

Ozul lay there in the darkness.

He could hear footsteps. Yes, the faint click of soles on stone steps. Unhurried boots that echoed through the silence…

_Please._

Four, five, six…

Ozul's heart was beating so fast he felt his eardrums would explode. Blood roared in his ears as he strained to discern every sound.

But there was no sound.

Propping himself upon one elbow on the cold flagged stone floor, he craned his head towards the door, trying to still his shaking body. Heart seized with all-consuming terror, he waited.

A key was grating in the lock.

The door swung open and a black mass was before him. It's very presence imposed upon him, almost concealing the hulking figure behind. Ozul seized his last chance and told the legend of the glyph.

"Grimalkin may still have it!" gasped Ozul, tears dripping from his chin long after his voice had died away. As his hiccupping sobs rasped between his dry lips, he was enveloped by the over-powering silence once more…

The Night Dweller remained impassive as Ozul collapsed back against the wall.

And as fear overcame him, so did darkness…

* * *

When the Night Dweller came, THE was not expecting him. He turned from his study of the finest Scotch, its perfumed vapours stealing across the room, and acknowledged the information.

"That's intriguing. Very intriguing."

A silence fell between the two beings, one's eyes on the swirling concoction; the others, if there, remained hidden.

"Very well." THE steepled his fingers, lips pursed tight against them.

"You may begin."


	3. Chapter One - Under the Gaslight

Chapter One – Under the Gaslight

Tossing and turning she dreamt, under the dark of the moon and the secrets of the stars. Dark times they were in Pendle, even now the witch clans had faded into the dust that haunts every age. Rippers and lamias and all manner of other legends had vanished, reverted into newer, more terrible versions of themselves. Pendle Hill was estranged, now a lonely island surrounded by a maze of trees that were home to no animal. Atop it all, as if queen of the Hill, stood Malkin Tower, grim and imposing but nevertheless indomitable as it hung over the boundaries of civilisation; an everlasting reminder of all the dark victories the witches have won. The extent of their wrath has been exercised through to the modern day, even after being severed off from the human world. It contained many secrets and rumoured itself fantastic powers that it may summon at will. Whisperings be true, it could even bind the mind of the witch in this very room, spread across the bedclothes in a restless attempt at sleep. Poor child, if such a title may be awarded to this woman. She sleeps and sleeps but never finds a scrap of respite. No, instead she is cornered by nightmares and the distant but oh so resonant screams of the wars on Pendle Hill…

_They were bloody, those hands which first took to battle. The farmers and the "gentlefolk" who lived about the town could never hold to any peace when it suited them best. Taking arms with fire and with sharper tools, the first to fight came from behind: as if they stood a chance. Even the first witches borne from overseas had keener senses and foresight than was found in all the mortals. My kind waited until those lambs thought theirs would be an easy victory and then we pounced while they watched with open eyes and howling tongues. They were paralysed to begin with, shock writ upon every face, until our mother lamias had disposed of half the gathering. Then they were jarred into hysteria and fled for the town with slaughter pounding through their veins but we have no need for captors…_

_Over time, three witches became seven and seven became twelve and soon Pendle was home to three clans: Malkin, Mouldheel and Deane. Grimalkin is there, always listening, always watching as she steps in and out of the shadows, playing with wraiths while killing their brothers. Alliances are made; I can see the bond forged between Thomas Ward and the connection between herself and Alice Deane… Ties that cannot be broken by the past. The journeys so many witches have made, I can see them all from here, high above in Malkin Tower where Grimalkin can see me through eyes ablaze with the fiery joy of her victories. She's smiling and holding something in her hand, only I can't see through all the smoke around her. She's stepping back, she's walking away and all I spy is the glint of sharpened scissors, blades already snipping through my ears before a roar of thunder and crying voices penetrates the scene through the fabric of this world and I scream alongside my sisters. We are dancing through this battlefield, the Hill beneath our feet and we will die to defend our name._

_Two serrated blades are in my hands as I turn, lost amidst the carnage of dying figures plunging and scratching and set to kill. But that is not the worst of it. Screeches of sudden pain, the dragging of a rusty edge over the flesh and the wailing of the dying, cries of the newly deceased and the never-ending bellow of way against us… War against witches. Witches of my ancestry. Witches of my family…_

_Grimalkin appears like an apparition in the glory of this night. Her hair is soaked with blood and her clothes are torn in several places. Not a few of her weapons are missing but she has lived for this moment. She holds out her hand to pull me up from where I now kneel after a human has knocked me down, before falling to his own death; a familiar knife protruding from his heart. I reach out to take her arm…_

_Out of the frenzied masses, a necromancer jumps down from a felled tree and drives with all his life force a strange weapon that pierces straight through her body… Her eyes open wide as her unearthly scream cries out and she is dragged from this world before my eyes…_

Chalice's eyes opened.

Instantly, she was aware of some kind of disturbance. She felt it in the air though the night was deep and the silence ever so. Grasping for her blades and assuring herself that her dagger was safely strapped to her thigh, she crept into the middle of room, where she halted. Eyes keen and hearing sharp, the almost indistinguishable rustling of the Domovoi* came to her ears, almost immediately followed by a territorial growl that rattled the windowpanes and shook the bare floorboards. Lithe as a cat, she sprang out to the landing and hid expectantly in the shadows. But at the bottom, there was no sign of an entry.

On the threshold, there lay an envelope.

An envelope? There was never post.

Descending the cold stairs, she plucked the envelope from the mat and turned it over in her hand. The Domovoi wove through the air around her, already diminishing in anger. Danger, whatever it had been, must have made a retreat.

Gathering a thick shawl around her, she crossed into the library and tucked her legs under her. By the light of the drowsy fire, she noticed a strange insignia on the front of the envelope that meant nothing to her as it stood. Disregarding it for the moment, she turned her attentions to the manila paper enclosed. Her countenance turned from one of reluctant curiosity to one of shock…

_Chalice,_

_You will not know me, although I know something of you. I know of your quest and the actions you must take to secure its success. The quest in name I will not mention, for fear this letter fall into wrong hands but I will attend to the crux of the issue. _

_I have come to offer you my service._

_You may at this point scorn my forthrightness and refuse my aid yet I entreat you to consider my offer._

_Circumstances force me to be brief so I leave you to make your decision. I await you under the seventh gaslight of Griswold Passage, three quarters of an hour before midnight on the eve of tomorrow._

_I trust this letter, and all its content, will remain with you._

_Ciaran, _

_Family of Barrowford_

Barrowford.

Frantically grabbing the envelope once more, she turned it over. The insignia was still there. Yes, behind the crest of a star there lay, imprinted, a barrow. A descendant of the fortuitous ally was in Pendle. But they had left the County and country behind when they were chased out by the Inquisitors and fled to Scandinavia where they would unite with their more primitive brothers once again.

Surely. Surely he could be trusted more than a Necromancer to do the job? After all, when the Barrowfords were still in the country, they had initiated the alliance in the first place. And now, a Barrowford had returned to help her. Ciaran Barrowford.

Yet still a seed of suspicion was sown within her.

How had he known where to contact her? If he had known of her existence for some time, why hadn't he contacted her before? Inquisitors no longer troubled Pendle after all the witches had supposedly died at the Pendleside Massacre.

And, more importantly, how did he know her name?

She looked again at the insignia but it only fuelled her exasperation. It was troubling indeed to hear her secret deeds relayed to her by a stranger but this stranger was a Barrowford and that might change things… Yet she could not trust him. That much was clear to her. She would play his game and discover who this Ciaran really was…

It was with an ill-tempered heart that Chalice returned to the more pressing task of sleep, determined to meet this Ciaran of the Barrowfords but with many questions to face. Sleep soon claimed her, as did her dreams and the Barrowford man was enveloped by her unconscious…

The Domovoi did not sleep.

* * *

Domovoi watched from the attic windows of the solitary Victorian manor as Chalice disappeared up the lane.

She swept across Pendle under the October moon, through the back roads and the by ways, just listening for any signs. The ways of the Necromancer are not easy to see so she lingered no more in the rain-sodden streets and ducked into Griswold Passage. The shop frontages glinted in the flickering gaslights so she kept silent as she grew close; an effortless task.

Outside the alchemists she paused and took in the figure of Ciaran Barrowford.

He was several hands taller than her and a few wider across the shoulders. His black cloak fit him well and fell to his heels where a pair of smart black boots were visible. His attire was pleasant.

Brown collar-length hair showed him to be no more than twenty-five and a clean-shaven appearance gave her no obvious cause for concern.

She stepped into the light.

Ciaran turned, appearing not to have noticed her previous speculation and took a step towards her.

"Ah, Miss… what shall I call you?"

Chalice paused.

"Why have you asked to see me, Mr Barrowford?"

Ciaran's brow furrowed slightly.

"I believe an alliance was forged between our families once," he said in a calm, measured tone.

When Chalice did not respond, he continued.

"I believe you are now in need of an ally once more. Having recently come back into the area, I wish to offer my services."

Silence ensued and she still made no move. Throwing a sideways glance behind him, he leaned closer.

It was then that she caught her first sight of the Barrowford ring. It drew her eye from his intent face to his hand as he adjusted his cloak. Iridescent blue and gold, the pentacle ring enchanted her with its glamour.

His voice softened as he spoke.

"Or perhaps you would like to meet somewhere safer?"

Chalice remained impassive at this request. Ciaran was at a loss.

Then he bowed respectfully and said,

"I can be found most Thursdays at the Candlewick Arms, around eight o' clock. This is the most convenient time in my schedule as I travel often. You could reach me there. Goodnight."

And with that, Ciaran left.

It was a thoughtful walk that Chalice led back to Hollowkin House.

***Author's Note: Type Domovoi into Wikipedia and you will see what one is. Mine is very similar to the first picture on the page except its younger, cuter and it can become visible and invisible as it chooses. Becoming visible does not portend death in my story. A Domovoi here is the primitive form of a boggart, similar to the one in the Spook's house for those who have read the Wardstone Chronicles. Just to clarify ;)**

**I can see that the people who have read my story thus far are very confused as to what is going on. In the second Prologue, I talked about a boy necromancer called Ozul being interrogated, whereby he spills his guts to the Night Dweller. The reason for me refraining from any real detail is because otherwise the plot of the story would be revealed and you would all guess the outcome. In my next instalment of Chapter Two, things will become clearer and the more you read on, the more connections you will find. **

**Review and tell me what you think **

**(P.S. If you were reading this before the 14****th**** April 2013 then I have made minor edits to the second Prologue and Chapter One. They're worth checking out for reasons I cannot explain just yet.)**


	4. Chapter Two - The Society

Chapter Two - The Society

The Society did not welcome guests.

Drifting through the halls, the Night Dweller picked out his way to the third-floor suites, where his own rooms were situated. He crossed a few shady figures on his path but none made any sign of acknowledgement. The Night Dweller preferred it that way. No-one here had any room for a conscience.

One of his agents had recently been assigned the target and was waiting for him now. This one had proved particularly… interesting. He was useful of course; very good at his job. But not without his share of controversy. And the Society had no use for those talented few that don't know when to draw the line…

The Night Dweller passed into his study.

A young man stood on the other side of the room, a respectful distance from the antique bureau. He straightened his back as the Night Dweller approached but remained silent. (You may at this point wonder why an agent would be left unguarded in a superior's study. Well it is important to know that it does not do to linger in these corridors. And if, by chance, one of these agents should mislay their eyes on any unauthorised information, it becomes clear that they are very, _very_ expendable…)

Gloom had settled nicely as a charcoal veil, oppressing both the furniture and the characters. Not much was usually seen of the agent but a chink of evening light shone through one of the heavily curtained windows and illuminated an ornate blue and gold ring on his sword hand.

The dead air was disturbed by the low, one-sided conversation of the agent. His voice was quick and muted, filling the silence with the current status of his mission.

"Yes, the plans are now in motion and I have made contact with the subject… Yes. She seems young, more so than I expected; probably capable of making a stand if it came to it. But nothing that should prevent a successful outcome and certainly nothing I haven't dealt with before… The glyph, if she has it, has not yet been revealed and I am disinclined to trespass upon Hollowkin House due to the resident Domovoi and the fact she may have other guards in place. I believe I have intrigued her sufficiently and she will contact me of her own accord… Very good. I shall inform you of any progress shortly."

The helical staircase wound several flights in both directions but none could surpass its majesty. Cimmerian shade dwelt at both ends; casting the building into perpetual nothingness, save for the occasional candle that stood watch. Beneath his fingertips, the smooth wood of the banister held testimony to the countless other beings that had passed this way; some no longer with us. It was unfortunate but time moves on and spent memories have no place among the Society.

As the agent swiftly descended the steps, he passed several tapestries in succession. They depicted great scenes of battle and glory, woven with gold thread and illuminated by the flickering lights as moths swirled round, soundless creatures flitting in the gloom. He passed the second floor before promptly disappearing into the archway where the spiral ended.

These halls were no more inviting than the last but you could breathe easier all the same. The lobby was quiet for the present time and the agent had no intentions to stay so he made for the only passage down to the ground floor. However, it was only as he passed the front desk that he was hailed by the receptionist.

"Ah, Mr Barrowford?"

The agent bowed his head.

"I prefer Mr Catafalque. Barrowford is my family name."

"Very well," The blonde changeling smiled efficiently,

"I have some correspondence that you must sign. It concerns certain expenditures."

Ciaran stepped forward and briefly noted the contents. With a wry expression, he acknowledged the expense for the valuable stained glass window that had exploded upon impact with Priest Michelangelo. The mission had proved very fruitful. Then he embossed the receipt with his family crest and without another word, strode out to the balustrade. Two sweeping staircases sprouted from here yet he would only use the left hand one. In a place like this, people were mindful of the rules.

That was when he heard it.

The sudden shouting jolted him out of his thoughts. The pitiful assertions of the man betrayed his lack of any acuity. Human. He could tell. It wasn't long before the source came into sight. Young male. Average height. Considerable vocal chords. Someone would have to silence him before any unwanted attention was received upon the establishment. He was kicking out against two of the henchmen, appropriately attired for the evening. It seemed he was an unknown; wrong place, wrong time. Pity.

Looking down at the façade, Ciaran looked on at the spectators in the game as he proceeded noiselessly to the foot of the stairs. It was then that the protests deformed into shrieks as he passed through the bar of the gentleman's club. Some watched; some carried on their conversation; some showed no interest at all.

And as the door opened wide unto the sharp night air, the screams intensified into primal howls. From underneath the staircase, a gateway opened into blackness and the man was dragged under…

Ciaran stepped out of the lamplight and was swallowed by the darkness. He kept a steady pace; soundless footsteps chanting a tattoo. The only distinguishable thing that kept him from believing he was dead was the receding commotion from The Private Gentleman's Club.

Then all of a sudden, there was silence.

The Society did not welcome guests.

The mission trickled in and out of his head, internal musings along the lines of his objectives. The facts were crystal clear. Obtain knowledge of the glyph and its whereabouts. Proceed to Phase Two.

Chalice herself assured him of his advantage. Smaller and slighter, he knew he could control the situation. Whatever she planned, whoever she might conspire with, he could out-think it all. After all, hadn't that been what his life revolved around? Being briefed on the facts; journeying to the target and following through… Success was all he knew.

Yet she had not been without her intrigue. The simple shocking colour of her hair had momentarily stunned him; he had not been informed very thoroughly of her personal features. But the appearance of an albino was a momentary distraction. She meant nothing to him.

Neither did her coldness, for he was certain of his effect. In a way, from the moment he saw her, he knew she would present a novel challenge. Chalice was not going to give up her game and he respected that. The idea of chasing shadows in Pendle appealed to him, even if only until the game was won.

Ciaran loped across the pasture in the blue dark, tracing ley-ways deep in the earth. It made him feel like he was just another footprint, another star up there in space but then he remembered from whence he came. And although he only had a few pieces, they kept him together.

As he looked up at the distant huddle of buildings, he found his mind was on Chalice once more. It wasn't that she was a complex character to solve: he had faced many foes in greater trepidation and reigned victorious over all. But this witch, the last witch known to history, could hold some further interest: and it may just be that she was pretty.

But he forced such musings from his head and turned up his collar. He would not relive those fleeting chapters again. The Society had ultimate control over his dealings so it would do no good to meddle where he was not permitted to go.

Above him, the stars shone bright, much the same as Italy. There had been many a night spent on rooftops, away from the mundanity of ordinary lives. Yet the smell of old English soil had called him alway from overseas. The forests and the night were different, maybe only in a way he understood. Now he took a deep breath and it _tasted_ like home.

Before he could count the steps he'd taken, he was home. His lodgings were as you'd expect on this side of town: nondescript and ramshackle, with furnishings that had never left the room. Mrs Hoarstone, the landlady, had ill taste but Ciaran was not one to notice tonight. With a heavy sigh, he stepped wearily out of his shoes and fell back onto his bed. In thirty seconds, he was asleep.

**Author's Note: I am extremely sorry for the really slow update and hopefully I can convince you as to excuse me of any abuse ;) ****One:**** I have had two really big exams that have needed constant attention in order for me to get anywhere near a pass. ****Two:**** We're back at school now, as opposed to during the holidays when I made my first instalments. ****Three:**** I find it really difficult to ever get past the first chapter in any story that I write. I always have a beginning and an end, but the middle, where all the action and actual plot is supposed to go… It never happens. I get bored. And I know that if I write down any old thing and update it, **_**you're**_** not going to be happy and **_**I'm**_** not going to be happy. I want to update something that people will actually want to read. So although this isn't my favourite instalment so far, I hope it works for everyone **

**(P.S. If you were reading this before the 14****th**** April 2013 then I have made minor edits to the second Prologue and Chapter One. They're worth checking out for reasons I cannot explain just yet. Yes, this is a repeat comment from Chapter One, directed at themockingjayxx and happydaze and whoever else deigned to read this.)**


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